


"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow"

by Creamteasforever



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Angst, Fatlock, Food, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 06:44:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2057916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Creamteasforever/pseuds/Creamteasforever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before his appointed meeting at the Reichenbach Falls, Sherlock can’t sleep. As it turns out, John can’t either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow"

**Author's Note:**

> There’s an amusing fanfic to be told rewriting the famous Sherlock Camping Joke with several different iterations of our duo, and their reactions withal. This is not that story, although you can see how I reached here from that initial idea. 
> 
> Instead, this is a sort of remix of “The Final Problem” that takes place for the BBC Sherlock duo in lieu of “The Reichenbach Fall,” where they *do* go to Switzerland. As such it follows ACD’s text…well, not closely, but logistically. While I wasn’t intending any more than some Fatlock hungry-Sherlock-is-comforted at first, the technicalities of such remixing absorbed my attention (I won’t say yet that the technique has become my trademark, but it does amuse me). More along these lines in the sequel, “Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not”. The literary reference in the titles is too obvious to bear mentioning, so I shaln’t.
> 
> Enjoy!

Sherlock turned over in his bed roll, imprudently improvised from Mrs. Hudson’s spare flannel blankets, and found himself shivering slightly. It was one thing knowing intellectually that the average spring temperature of the Swiss mountains hovered around one degree Celsius; it was quite another to actually be experiencing those temperatures in person. He’d not really prepared for this expedition at all, telling himself that John might be endangered by guessing at a trip abroad before it happened, but as it’d turned out his roommate had been considerably better prepared for travelling at the drop of a hat. A good job, too; John was tucked up in a properly warm sleeping bag he’d apparently kept handy. Very practical. 

Tomorrow, Moriarty. 

He checked the time and saw it was only two in the morning. Hours to go yet, and while he needed some rest, the arrangement was for three in the afternoon. It wouldn’t matter too much if he slept a little late tomorrow. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t have passed on tea earlier; John had warmed up an army MRE and offered him one, but between time zone changes and feeling unaccountably sickened with anxiety, he’d refused the food. Wasn’t difficult when he’d gone without eating before, he could do it for another twenty hours. Keeping his wits about him might be vital tomorrow. 

Now, though, he was feeling almost unbearably tense, had to concentrate on keeping the transport calm and not tossing about or kicking – how was it he and John had never slept in quite such close proximity before? It was all different this time. If everything went wrong he’d be simply dead. If they went right, matters were going to be far more complicated. 

You knew all the risks here when you were in London, Sherlock scolded himself. You’ve worked out this plan with Mycroft, down to every last detail, from the chartered boat race in the channel to the faked avalanche to convince your best friend that you’re in genuine danger. You’re going to leave John, and your cosy London flat, and your friendly rivalry with Scotland Yard and everything else, so you can spend an indefinite number of years chasing down the one goal that’s ever seriously mattered to you – extricating the disparate strands of a puzzle so complicated even you can’t solve it with ease. He breathed out in a sharp, unhappy sigh. 

In the meantime, he was feeling distinctly hollow now. Rolling over on his chest and tucking his scarf underneath helped a little, but didn’t stifle the occasional growls and grumbles. After years of taking his transport for granted, it was sharply confronted with the visceral awareness of death not as something to be evaded through cleverness and ingenuity, but immediate and close as these indifferent mountain heights. How very, very long a man could fall, if he should slip at the edge of one of those cliffs. 

It’d awoken all his body’s ignored appetites, left him pulling air into his lungs with the grateful gasp of a half-drowned swimmer, clutching his blankets more closely to appreciate every scrap of warmth they offered. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to go. At the moment the two fates didn’t seem to be very different. 

Abruptly, his stomach gurgled a cavernous, absurd protest that sounded ear-splitting in the utter stillness of the night. He froze and felt a wave of hot, vivid embarrassment envelop him as John’s snoring ceased; evidently the sound had caught the ex-soldier’s sharp hearing. 

"Sherlock. You all right?"

"Fine. It’s just…" he trailed off, grappling with his unruly thoughts for something appropriate. “Nothing, John. Maybe a touch peckish, that’s all.” 

John switched on the torch, and Sherlock was surprised by how pleasant the harsh yellow light was, how comfortingly it lit his partner’s familiar features. “Sherlock, you know it’s gonna be brilliant tomorrow, all right? We’ll find Moriarty, and we’ll deal with him, and we’ll head back to London, and it’ll be fine, you know.”

“John, there’s a very real chance that you and I might be dead by this time tomorrow.” He’d done everything he could to minimize the danger to John, but nothing could be ruled out at this stage. Mycroft couldn’t account for every variation. 

“Shhh. You’ll feel better after eating something. No wonder you’re not sleeping.”

“What makes you say I’m not sleeping?”

“It’s obvious from your eyes. I can’t always tell when you’ve made yourself up, but the periorbital puffiness is unmistakable.”

The doctor delivered this little oration with the merest hint of professional pride, that tremendous enthusiasm John glowed with whenever he felt he’d successfully matched the detective for deductions, and Sherlock felt a rush of fondness for the man gazing down at him. It wouldn’t be everyone who not only bore up with his demands and quick thinking, but tried to understand where it was all coming from: in point of fact, nobody else. Not to match him at the impossible task of outthinking him. Just to let him know there was someone else who could, with patience and time, grasp his methods and intent, and more than that, see past that to the person underneath as well.

John pressed a purple-wrapped bar into his hand and gently helped him into a sitting position. “Not what I’d normally recommend for an early breakfast, but hang dietary advice right now. You need something sweet, you’re shaking.”

“It’s quite cold,” Sherlock murmured. Giving the sweet a hesitant lick, he chewed it gratefully, savouring the contrast of sweet raisins with protein-heavy nuts, and the quickly melting chocolate that bound them together. John handed him a thermos of warm cocoa to drink (when had the man prepared that? That seemingly unnecessary ten minutes their fire had been left going, he concluded), with a chaser of cool water out a silvery canteen. It helped; he wasn’t full but it’d gone some way towards filling that gnawing hollow. Something solid, something everyday, warming him. 

John grasped his other hand, rubbed and blew warm breath on it. “Blimey, you weren’t kidding. You’re freezing. Look here, you’d better have my bag for the night. I’ll take your bedroll.”

Sherlock wanted to protest, but with the edge taken off his hunger, exhaustion seemed to have finally caught up with him. He sleepily acquiesced as John neatly tucked him into the sleeping bag, sensed the change in the light quality as the torch was attached, still lit, to the top of the tent, felt the other man’s body heat as John pressed up against him, warm against his back. 

“It’ll be all better in the morning. You’ll work it out. You’re Sherlock Holmes.”

I should tell him it’s not going to be like that, Sherlock thought dreamily. Tell him that it’s the end for us in any case. Explain that he’s been wasting his time, all this effort gone on a man who’s leaving tomorrow whatever happens.

But John had done his work well; he was warm and safe and fed now, his body too contented for more conscious thought. Sherlock drifted off. 

Poor old Sherlock, John thought fondly. So out of his element here, it’s no wonder he had a touch of nerves. He’ll be all right when we’re back in London. 

He closed his eyes for the quiet, dreamless sleep of a man with no doubts at all.


End file.
